


One Less, Seven More

by genarti



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricades, Canon Era, Five Less One More, Gen, guest-starring 19th Century Literary Coincidence, one more canonical character but it's a fic spoiler to name them, sort of post-barricades fic but not in the usual sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: A survivor of the barricade of the rue de la Chanvrerie, saved by a man who saves others.





	

Mathieu Leblanc had been chosen. 

The thought of his five little children, his wife, his wife's aged mother, his young nieces and nephews, all these dear thoughts both spurred him forward and urged him back. For a France that would support their futures he was willing to die; to support them he had to live. 

Old Milo, a porter who had earned his name because only his countrymen could pronounce his true name of Miłosz, had pointed to him. “He has a family,” he'd said. “Children, old mother. You should go, little Leblanc.” And the others had agreed, though Mathieu had argued hotly. Old Milo was old -- yes, little Leblanc, that's why I will stay -- others were just as needed, he could die as well as any -- no good. The leaders insisted, the men were in accord. Their barricade would be a republic. It obeyed the general will. Mathieu Leblanc was to be saved. 

Michel Danilowicz, the newlywed, with an ill father who spoke little French, his young wife with a child on the way. Jean-Baptiste Genest, the orphan supporting his three young brothers. Benjamin Pasquiou, a young student, unprepared for this fight his opinions had carried him to, wide-eyed and eager before today's baptism of blood and tremblingly steadfast now. Albert Mistral, with clever angry tongue, illiterate son of an illiterate old mother who depended on his few sous from day labor. Mathieu Leblanc, with his own old mother-in-law and his own children and their dear lives, after all, depending on the coin he earned. 

These five, the survivors of the rue de la Chanvrerie.

He swallowed his protests. His tongue was thick, numb, useless. All around him, brave men, many friends, others brothers hours old. Soon they would all be corpses. He let the old Guardsman help him into his coat. The old man's hands were kind, and his face was mournful. It reminded Mathieu strangely of his mother-in-law; she was ancient, toothless, bent by work, roughened and reddened by weather, wrinkled and worn as this rich Guardsman was not, for all his white hair; still, they had something of the same look of patient suffering. 

The deep blue and red seemed unreal in the corner of his eye. He never wore such colors. He had never worn such thick sturdy wool.

What could he say? Nothing. He ducked his head to them all, a swallowed bob of a bow. He left.

What could he say?

The streets of Paris were eerily silent and dark. Lanterns had been shattered. No one passed by. He saw only one troop of the army, on their way towards Saint-Denis or Saint-Méry; he had come too far already to be sure which was their destination. His heart was in his throat. He wanted to hide; he wanted to leap upon them like a beast, and tear them apart for the sake of his comrades who would face their bullets and bayonets. Instead he lifted his hand in greeting. His heart was hot with shame, his fingers cold with terror. The captain waved back. They marched on. No trouble.

He spat on the ground when they were out of sight. His hands had begun to shake.

What could he do? He marched on himself. Homeward.

He crept up the stairs like a thief. He would have to find some way to dispose of this fine Guardsman's uniform, he thought, feeling its red and blue like a signpost now instead of a shield. No one on this street had ever been in the National Guard. The jacket had saved him, but it wasn't his. He shrugged it off with an obscure pang of guilt at his door, and folded it over his arm before he went in.

There was his wife, Jeanne: tall, broad of shoulder, her hair covered by a bonnet gone askew, little Jean-Luc and his older sister Jeanne-Marie both in the crook of one arm, stirring a pot of porridge with the other. The older three were asleep on a mattress in the corner. She gave a soft cry when he stepped through the door.

"Darling," Mathieu said, and fell silent. He dropped the coat and went to her. He kissed his wife, then the soft hair of each child. Their little hands clutched at his shirt collar. He took them both from his wife, one in each arm. He kissed the wrinkled cheek of old Mother Jeanne.

“You're home! Already? I was so worried. The rumors are awful.”

“Yes,” he said, and sat down heavily. The children clung to his shirt, their knees knocking together, until Jean-Luc squirmed free and hugged his leg instead. “Yes, I've come home to you.”

“Thank the dear good God!” cried Mother Jeanne. She had been a tall woman once, like her daughter, and strong even on poverty's rations of bad water and thin soup, but now she was old and bent. Her thick accent of Faverolles was further muddled by missing teeth. “Without you, it would have been terrible. But God has brought you safely home.” And she crossed herself and settled down to pray the full length of her thankfulness.

Mathieu stroked his daughter's hair. On the barricade, he had not wanted to leave, or to live. But here in the warmth of home, the rue de la Chanvrerie seemed like a far-off terrible dream. There, men, friends, men he loved, were facing their deaths without him. He would have been proud to die for the Republic, and a world that would put bread and medicine in the mouths of poor children, and give their fathers the dignity due a human being. But with his daughter on his knee, his son standing on his foot, his wife at his side, his mother-in-law praying in the corner -- here, among them, he could be grateful to the old volunteer who had saved his life, and thus preserved all of theirs.


End file.
